


Invasions Hurt

by Charles Edward Stewart (eddiecharlesstewart)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Allies lost, Angst, M/M, Poor England, WW2 alternative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3789292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddiecharlesstewart/pseuds/Charles%20Edward%20Stewart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When England is forced to leave his country when Britain is defeated in the war, he finds refuge in Canada... But the pains of exile threaten to topple him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invasions Hurt

It was the year 1945; Europe was under the Nazi jackboot. The armies of the third Reich had victoriously swept across Europe, in quick succession Poland, France, Ukraine, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Serbia, Greece, France, Holland, Belgium, Norway and Denmark had fallen. The Russians led by their countries mighty personification were being pushed back beyond Siberia. The Great men of Britain had been crushed after the disaster of Dunkirk, a Nazi invasion on Christmas day had finished all that remained of England, and Swastikas flew in Whitehall, Westminster and Winsor. Winston Churchill had been shot dead and Arthur the countries personification was in Exile in Canada with the ragged remains of his armies. His brothers in Wales and Ireland had been hunted down and slain by the SS. His other brother Scotland Fought a guerrilla war in the north, harrying supply convoys and leading mad charges against the enemy.   
Arthur laid on his bed, in the governors house in Nova Scotia, Canada, he had for almost a year stayed there, growing dejected and depressed as he mourned for his old friend Churchill and his people. This was the first time England had been conquered by a foreign invader since William the Conqueror, and he hated it. His little brother, Canada had let him turn the province into a New Britain, Much to Scotland’s apparent disgust. How the tables had turned, Canada was once a Province of Him, now he was a mere Province. At least, he still had the Navy, Nova Scotia was now home to the Entire British Navy, a mere handful of RAF fighters and a few regiments of infantry, survivors of the Battle for Britain. Arthurs thoughts turned darker as he thought of his countrymen, under the cruel oppression of the Germans, Arthur wondered what he had ever done to anger Ludwig so, then he remembered that Ludwig and Feliciano were in exile too, in Mexico, Portugal, England’s old friend had his base in Brazil, raising an army to free his homeland, and Arthur could only sit and mope, his heart was heavy and he just couldn’t gain the will power to fight anymore, unless that impudent Yank came near him again. Arthur couldn’t stand the site of Alfred his former colony and little brother anymore, after the so called hero had failed to come to Britain’s aid in the great battle for Britain, Arthur grew sick of the site of the loud mouthed arrogant sod. In the few nations’ meetings he had attended Britain had nearly throttled the damn yank, now he was simply unable to find the energy to leave the house.  
Half an hour later, a rather sorrowful Francis, Portugal, Or Alfonso, and Matthew walked into the room. The tall blonde Frenchman for once lacked his cheerful grin and the twinkle in his eye, the young Canadian stared at the floor in shock and the tall dark Portuguese man walked over to Arthur and cradled his oldest friend in a tight hug as the news was told. They had a telegram. Scott was dead. Shot as he charged a German machine gun, claymore in hand screaming bloody murder at all and sundry.  
Arthur, although surrounded by those he felt closest to had never felt so alone. All his brothers were dead. He couldn’t see straight as tears flooded his eyes. He hated crying, a sign of weakness Scott had always said, yet now sobs escaped the rather deflated Englishman and there was no one to reproach him. Arthur’s sobs broke into harsh gasps as he buried himself in Portugal’s embrace.  
It was many days later that Arthur left his room.  
His once golden hair was matted and dull, his emerald eyes had lost their life and his face was gaunt, shadowed by misery. He shuffled slowly from the room, his footsteps almost silent on the wooden floor as he slunk towards the kitchen of the grand house; he ghosted along the corridors, his body too thin and listless, from almost a week of hunger strike, to be noticed much by the writhing masses of humanity who swarmed the building, busy with the war effort.  
‘So this is what it is like to fade’ Arthur huffed to himself, eyes blurring with tears despite his detached state.  
The country reached the kitchens to find Matthew, Francis and Alfonso clustered around the central table. When they saw him the three countries rushed over to pull the skinny nation into a punishingly tight embrace, Arthur wheezed as his bared ribs were squeezed unbearably.  
As he finally escaped the crushing embrace Arthur stepped back to see, in the shadows of the far corner of the room, the one person who he wished could not see him in this state.  
America.  
The younger nation stood stock still against the wall in shock; his face was an ill masked grimace. Arthur felt dread boil in turmoil in his chest, burning at his painfully clenching heart. The younger nation dropped the coffee mug in his hand. It fell to the ground, shattering and spraying coffee across the tiled floor.  
Arthur visibly flinched at the sharp noise, like the shell shocked soldier or the frightened child. His eyes lost their glassy gaze, turning at once stormy, filled with hatred and misery, tears gushing from his eyes like the pelting curtain of rain that comes with a storm, the once great empire fled the room, sobbing wretchedly as he ran and stumbled.  
All eyes turned to America with ill-disguised accusations.  
“I….I Just had to see him….” America stuttered tears welling in his eyes, as his big, strong, proud and amazing big brother crumpled before his very eyes, shattering like the mug moments ago. America was still dumb with the shock.  
Matthew looked on with understanding dawning in his eyes before stepping over to comfort his twin.  
“Here, here… he’ll get better, he always has before…” Canada whispered.  
“But he looks so broken…” Alfred whimpered.  
“No worse than he did between 1765 and 1783… he came back from that…”  
“What happened to him then…Oh, OH… me…” America almost cried.  
“Errr yeh…” Matthew sighed, “It did hit him rather hard, he didn’t leave his room for almost a month once he realised you were serious about leaving him…”  
“When was that?”  
“1783- When he forced his government to give in…”  
“He did what?!?” America gasped.  
“Well you don’t really believe you- a colony- could ever have beaten the might of the British Empire- do you?”  
“No… oh Arthur…” America sobbed.  
The other nations looked on in an array of sadness and sombre grimaces.  
“He looked rather similar at Agincourt… I had nearly won… he looked so pitiful… then his damn archers shattered my charge” Francis murmured.  
“He saved me when I was like that… Napoleon was at the very gates of Lisbon,” Portugal grunted, looking harshly at France, “He turned up with his red coated soldiers in their neat little ranks and his Cannons and cavalry and he saved me from the oppressor’s heel.  
“He saved me from the Hun in the Great war…” Francis added.  
“He saved me from you” Canada added meekly looking at America.  
“When???” America gasped shocked.  
“1812…” Matthew whispered.  
“What?”  
“You Don’t Remember?!?” Canada near yelled, “You invaded my lands; marched on my towns and cities, your soldiers burned and pillaged, and then England… brave strong England… arrived. He pushed your damn Yankees back and burned Washington as retribution.”  
“Oh…” America sighed, “I guess I’m not the hero then…. I failed you… my brother… and I Failed England… The one I love…”  
“Wait! You love England?” Matthew, Francis and Alfonzo cried in unison.  
“Yeh, I remember when he found me… he would cradle me in his warm arms and he’d sing to me and play with me… we’d explore my lands and he taught me all sorts of cool stuff…” America mumbled.  
“This is great!” Francis cried.  
“What???” The others grunted.  
“Well, it was after you’re Independence Day celebrations last year… Arthur was rather drunk… I carried him home…. He insisted on ranting and raving on about how perfect you were… how he loved you… I thought it was the alcohol speaking… But I knew it was true when the next day Arthur turned up at my house with his creepy spell book and swore me to silence.”  
“So… he’s loved me all this time…?” Alfred whispered in shock.  
“YEH” France cried.

America was racing through the door seconds later, the others cried after him but there was no stopping the young nation as he ran for the England’s room, cursing joyously the stubborn old fool.  
He stepped brashly into the room, shoving the door open so it shook on its hinges. The young nation stopped his body frozen in horror.  
England’s body lay in a spreading pool of blood; an old sword plunged deep in his belly. The frail body of the conquered nation still shivered and gently heaved as the elder nation drew his last breaths. More worrying still was how the body of the old country was fast fading… becoming translucent as the sun poured in the bay windows cloaking the pale boy and the pooling crimson blood in golden light.  
“R-r-r-remember me… as I once was… when you still looked up to me…” England stuttered, his eyes sparkling at the fond memory, his teeth chattering as he passed into shock. America threw himself down alongside his brethren, hands grasping at the fading country willing him to live.  
“Please, please, please. Don’t die. No.no.no.no.no.no.NO!!!” Alfred screamed.  
Arthurs emerald green eyes turned glassy, the sparkle that moments ago had ignited, had been cruelly flushed out in a moment. Alfred held the cooling body of his love crying and sobbing as the nation’s limp form faded in his very arms. The other countries rushed in to see Alfred leaning over Arthur’s bloodied body just as it faded into the golden sun’s rays.

Days later the countries of the world, in a great ceasefire, stood around the freshly raised stone. The wind howled mercilessly on the wild English moor, high above the smouldering ruins of London. America was on his knees beseeching Arthur to rise once more…  
Francis stood by Matthew holding the younger country as he sobbed for his brother…  
Alfonso stood by Antonio as the lashing wind bit his skin, silence his mantra…  
Off to the side Germany and Italy stood, dumb in shock as they remembered the once jovial nation they had once faced…

Engraved in cold grey granite the stone read…  
‘After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well;  
Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,  
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,  
Can touch him further.’

Francis stepped forward, “this is from one of those damn plays he loved so much…  
Cowards die many times before their deaths;  
The valiant never taste of death but once.  
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,  
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;  
Seeing that death, a necessary end,  
Will come when it will come.”

Matthew stepped numbly forward beside his friend and spoke.  
“When he shall die,  
Take him and cut him out in little stars,  
And he will make the face of heaven so fine  
That all the world will be in love with night  
And pay no worship to the garish sun.”

Alfred stumbled to the fore.  
“He was a man, take him for all in all.  
I shall not look upon his like again.”  
With that he fell to his knees before the cold hard stone and heaved a great howling cry that like a Celtic war pipe, sounded across the high moor and narrow vales of the Land once called England.


End file.
